Blood-Ink Poems on Old Walls

I found my story written on the old walls—

not in real blood,

but in the kind of ink that comes

from a heart pressed too hard

against the memories it tried to forget.

These walls held everything

I never said out loud:

the mistakes I grew from,

the names I whispered only in dreams,

the pieces of myself I left behind

while learning how to breathe again.

Some lines were crooked,

trembling with the weight of regret.

Others stretched soft and steady,

proof that healing can be quiet

and still be real.

I traced those faded marks with my fingertips,

feeling how time had softened their edges.

The pain had thinned,

the colors had cooled,

but the meaning—

the meaning still pulsed

like a small, steady heartbeat

reminding me I survived.

These poems were never meant to impress—

only to remind me

that even the hardest chapters

can become gentle echoes

when we finally allow ourselves

to read them without fear.

Moral:

Our stories stay with us, but they change shape—

what once felt like a wound

can become a wise and patient teacher.

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Thank you for reading...

Regards: Fazal Hadi